


Trials

by Greensilver (Trelkez)



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-06
Updated: 2009-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trelkez/pseuds/Greensilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm lowering the time limit," Arthur said, watching the latest failed trial pick himself up off the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trials

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt "Arthur/Lancelot, something with male bonding and bravery and possibly goblets of drink, and entirely without future!angst," for enigel.

"I'm lowering the time limit," Arthur said, watching the latest failed trial pick himself up off the ground.

Lancelot pushed his sweat-damp hair away from his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at the man he'd just soundly beaten.

"It's always been a minute," he said, turning his questioning gaze on Arthur. "When _you_ ran trials, it was a minute--"

"And you're certainly no better than I was," Arthur smoothly interjected, "but that was peacetime, and we're at war. We're losing men faster than they can be--" _Replaced_ went unsaid, in a moment of awkward, fumbling silence. "Than their successors can be found."

"Ah." Lancelot sheathed his sword slowly, stalling for a moment's time as he tried to find a tactful way to give voice to his thoughts.

Arthur sighed -- or laughed; sometimes the two were so alike as made little difference. "Out with it."

"It's only -- sire," Lancelot hedged, and Arthur's mouth twitched with impatience. "We _are_ at war. Surely this is no time to lower the standards to which we hold our knights -- your knights," he corrected, realizing what he'd said.

"I think you were right the first time, Lancelot," Arthur said, and clapped him on the shoulder, turning him around.

The man who'd failed his trial was standing a few steps away, shoulders squared, jaw tight with determination.

Lancelot had to stare at him a moment before he remembered his name: Gaheris, seventh son to a nobleman who rarely attended court. That was an uncomfortably familiar lineage, one that made Lancelot's muscles ache at the small of his back, just where Arthur -- _still_ \-- liked to hit him when they sparred.

"I want to try again," Gaheris said, lifting his chin.

Lancelot exchanged a considering look with Arthur, who merely tilted his head, putting the matter entirely in Lancelot's hands.

"Very well," Lancelot said.

He drew his sword, swung his body forward, and slammed the flat of his blade against the backs of Gaheris' legs, sending the man sprawling in the dirt.

"You can start by cleaning out the stables," Lancelot said, ignoring Arthur's slowly growing smile. "Don't leave until the stalls shine."

"The _stables_," Gaheris repeated, incredulous. He peered up at Lancelot from the ground, not daring to rise. Good; he wasn't as stupid as he looked.

"The stables," Lancelot agreed, sheathing his sword a second time. That was the clearest signal he knew, one he'd picked up from Arthur and couldn't shake; it meant _we're done here_, and under the circumstances, it bordered on an insult. "Unless, that is, you'd prefer to leave the matter settled here."

He strode back to Arthur, not waiting to see what Gaheris would do. He _knew_ what Gaheris would do.

"'Don't leave until the stalls shine,'" Arthur said quietly, raising an eyebrow. "I don't remember that part."

"There's always room for improvement, sire." Lancelot blocked the elbow Arthur aimed at his ribs, and a brief scuffle ensued, one that couldn't look terribly dignified from the outside: the king and his right arm, wrestling like boys.

In a moment, Arthur had Lancelot's arm twisted up behind his back.

"Do you yield?" Arthur said, with a grin in his voice.

Yes; of course; always.

Instead, Lancelot said, "Arthur, don't lower the time limit."

Arthur sighed, turning Lancelot around to face him. "You will find good men."

"Yes, sire--"

"That's an order, Lancelot." The king looked at him now, gravely serious. "We'll do it your way, and that makes it _your_ responsibility to ensure that there is a worthy knight in every place at my table. You _will_ find good men."

"Yes, sire," Lancelot repeated, more formally.

Arthur smiled slightly, just enough to make Lancelot's mouth twitch in kind. "But not this minute." He slung a companionable arm around Lancelot's shoulders, steering him off the training field. "I have other uses for you, just now."

The last time Arthur had uttered those words, Lancelot had woken up with a hangover beyond compare and a tunic so badly stained with wine that Merlin had been forced to spell it clean.

"Yes, sire," Lancelot said, long-suffering, and allowed Arthur to drag him off to his fate.


End file.
